Remember When
by MsOutAndAbout
Summary: Sherlock and John meet in grade 2. Sherlock is so proud to have a friend. Kidlock.
1. Chapter 1

"Hi! My name is John. What's yours?"

"Sherlock. What do you want?"

"To play. What do you want to do?"

"Nothing. Go away."

"Fine! I bet you're boring anyway!" And with that, John storms off. His shoes light up with every step. Sherlock thinks they're probably the coolest shoes ever.

John ends up playing with Mike and Andy. Sally joins them. They're waving sticks around they're talking about something, some movie. It is agreed that Mike is Harry, Sally is Hermione and Andy is Ron. John pouts when they say he can be Ginny. Mike offers to let him be Draco, but John doesn't want to be him, either, and the game continues. Soon John comes to sit next to Sherlock again.

"They're not done playing," Sherlock points out. It seems obvious to him, but lots of people don't understand things that seem obvious to him.

"Doesn't matter," John says as he draws a circle in the dirt with his stick. "I'm done playing with them." He adds two dots and a curved line to the circle. Now it's a sad face.

"Why?"

"Because they picked a stupid game. I don't want to be stupid Draco, Draco is mean." John adds frowning eyebrows to his sad face.

"So? Lots of people are mean."

"Not me. I don't want to be mean like Draco."

Sherlock isn't sure who Draco is exactly, but he doesn't believe John. Lots of people say they don't want to be mean, but then they are anyway. Sherlock knows that it's one of those things people just say even if it's not really true, like when someone asks you how you are and you're supposed to say 'good,' even if you feel sad or grumpy. That's dumb, Sherlock thinks. Someday, when he's big, he'll say exactly what he's thinking, and his mummy won't be there to tell him off for it, and everyone else will be so impressed by how smart he is that they won't care that he's not polite.

John adds some horns and a curly moustache to his frowny face. "Sherlock is a long name."

"Yes." Sherlock knows his name is long. He's not stupid.

"It's long to say. Do you have a nickname?"

"What's a nickname?" Contrary to popular opinion, Sherlock doesn't hate not knowing things. He hates not being able to know things, like when adults tell him that he'll understand when he's older instead of answering his questions.

John is still drawing in the dirt. He doesn't look up. "It's a name that people call you instead of your real name. In my old school there were three different Johns in my class – Hardy, Davis and Watson. So instead of John people called me Doc, because I want to be a doctor when I grow up."

"Did you like being called Doc?"

"Of course! It was fun!"

Sherlock thinks about this until John puts the stick down and looks up at him. "So? Do you have a nickname, or not?"

"I have lots," Sherlock says. He didn't know they were nicknames. Were they supposed to be fun? They didn't seem fun. Sherlock didn't like any of his nicknames.

"Like what?"

"Loser, freak, weirdo, psycho…" Sherlock trails off because John is staring at him now, with his eyes huge and wide and his mouth hanging open. Sherlock giggles. "Grand-mama would ask you if you're trying to catch flies."

John closes his mouth. Sherlock can hear his teeth snap together. "Sherlock, those aren't nicknames!"

"What? Why not?"

"Because nicknames are supposed to be nice! Those are all mean! What are some nice things people call you?"

"People don't call me nice things." Sherlock didn't understand why John was upset. He decided that John must not know how things worked here. "People don't play with me, either, or sit near me, or talk to me if they don't have to. They all play together and I have to be alone."

"Why?" John still looks very sad. Sherlock had hoped that explaining would make him feel better, but it wasn't working.

"Freak!" Andy yells as he runs up to Sherlock and kicks a cloud of dust and rocks into his face. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut just in time. "Come play with us again John, you can be Ron now if you want. But you don't have to sit here with Sherlock."

Sherlock sits back against the wall. He'll miss John, he decides.

"I want to sit with Sherlock."

Sherlock actually jumps, and cracks his head against the wall. Andy looks as though a bomb had gone off. He wrinkles his nose as though John said something disgusting. "Why would you want to sit with him? You're fun."

"Sherlock's fun."

"No, he's not. He's crazy. He calls everyone else stupid even though he's not any smarter, he doesn't even know what Doctor Who is, probably."

Sherlock picks up John's stick and starts to draw his own frowny face. "It's a television show," he mutters. Andy grabs the stick out of his hands. It has a small branch sticking out that cuts his index finger.

"That's John's, freak! Come on, John."

"No."

John's response stops Andy cold. John stands up. "You're Draco, not me! I'm not going to be mean like you! Draco's stupid!"

Andy looks shocked for a second (and confused, but Sherlock knows that Andy always looks a bit confused), until John lifts up his foot and slams it down on top of Andy's trainer. The lights on John's shoe flash again. They keep flashing as Andy runs lopsidedly back to Mike and Sally. Sherlock decides that they're definitely the best shoes ever.

John sits down next to him again. He smiles. Sherlock only gives him an odd look before turning to wipe the blood running down his finger onto his pants. He thinks that he really should try to explain to John about what he's done; if he lumps himself in with Sherlock now the other kids will never want to play with him. But Sherlock kind of likes talking to someone who doesn't call him names, and John is fun. Even if he is a little bit weird.

"Sherlock! What happened to your finger?"

"Stick cut it."

"You should get a plaster. Do you know where the nurse's office is?"

"Of course I do." Sherlock stands up.

"Okay! You can show me where it is then, I don't know the way yet." John stands too.

Sherlock stops. "Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Then why are you coming?"

Now John gives an odd look to Sherlock. "Um, because we're friends?" He giggles a little. "You're weird. Let's go get a plaster from the nurse."

That's the first time anyone's ever called Sherlock weird and made it sound like a compliment.

* * *

Sherlock's parents are very important.

This doesn't matter, because they're also liars.

Mummy hugged him this morning (she smelled like tea and lavender shampoo and comfort); Papa promised that they would be there when Sherlock got back. He's not expecting either of them, and he's right. He can tell before he even gets in the house. Only Papa's car is gone, but there's a scuff on the driveway, long and thin and dark, with sharp edges on both sides, the kind only a thin heel can make. That means Mummy left with him, wearing high-heeled shoes. Dressed up, then, so gone for dinner. Sherlock brightens a bit at that. Gone for dinner means Mycroft will be home, so no horrible babysitter.

Mycroft is fifteen, a full eight years older, and he is also very important, but not in the same way their parents are, not in the sense that he has expensive clothing to wear and other important people, more important than Sherlock, to talk to. Mycroft is important because he's the one who knows, who actually listens to Sherlock talk, and who likes him. (His parents love him, of course, he knows that, but he's not convinced that they truly like him – they are always shooing him about, chasing him out of rooms as they step into them. They say it's because they have important things to talk about. Sherlock believes them, mostly.) It is therefore Mycroft who must be told the news, the very good, very exciting, completely amazing news.

Sherlock has a new friend.

Mycroft will be so surprised. The best kind of surprised. The kind of surprised that people are on Christmas or their birthday or when they win the lottery.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock shouts as he tears through the house. He's a little proud of how he can make his voice echo through the whole house, up the stairs and through the halls and into every room. He knows Mycroft heard him, but there's no answer.

He stops. Mycroft always wants to talk to him, that's why Mycroft is so important. He listens.

There! A thump as a door closes, a click as it latches, another click as it locks. Mycroft is in his bedroom. The only doors that have locks are Mycroft's and his parents' (the guest rooms were poorly planned, and Sherlock isn't even allowed a latch on his door ever since he hid a beehive under his bed), and his parents' bedroom has double doors. It doesn't make sense, though. If Mycroft were changing he would have just told that to Sherlock. Mycroft always talks to Sherlock.

Sherlock swallows, takes a shaky breath, walks to his room and unbends a wire hanger. He then tiptoes back to Mycroft's door, puts the end of the hanger into the small hole in the door handle, pushes and jiggles until he hears the lock pop open. He peeks through the door.

Mycroft is already walking towards the door. His face is pink, the whole face, his cheeks and chin and nose and forehead and ears. Even his eyelids are pink, when he blinks. There's another boy sitting on his bed, flipping through one of Mycroft's books.

"Sherlock! What do you want?"

Sherlock freezes. Mycroft's never snapped at him before. He stands up a little straighter. "To tell you about school. You'll never believe what happened, Croft–"

The boy sitting on the bed barks out a short laugh at the nickname. Mycroft goes even redder. He turns around.

"Sorry, Gregory, this is my brother Sherlock. Sherlock, go outside or something."

"I've already told you to call me Greg," says the boy. "And let the kid stay, its fine."

Sherlock is shocked. Mycroft doesn't shoo him like that, Mycroft is his brother, Mycroft always listens, always knows. He needs to know this. Sherlock tries again.

"No, Mycroft, listen, there was this boy at school–"

"Who was mean to you, or called you a name, or hit you, I know!" Mycroft almost shouts. "It can wait, Sherlock! Tell me after supper!" And he nicks Sherlock's coat hanger, slams the door, and locks it again.

Sherlock goes back to his room. He's not crying, he's not, it's just that his vision's all blurry and his eyes are too hot and something is getting the pillow all wet. He knows that one day Mycroft will apologize for this, and Sherlock decides that he will never, ever forgive him.

* * *

_To be continued ^_^_


	2. Chapter 2

_No excuses for the delay, but endless apologies for it! I'm really really very sorry! _

* * *

Mycroft calls Sherlock down to dinner an hour after that. Sherlock can smell fish. Mycroft is still mad at him, then – Mycroft knows Sherlock hates fish.

Sherlock won't make it easy for him. Greg still hasn't left, so Sherlock will be forced to eat at the table like every time they have people over to eat supper, but Mycroft will have to come up and get him first.

"Sherlock, for the last time, get down here!" There's a three minute pause between Mycroft shouting that and Sherlock hearing his footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock lies on his bed and lets his muscles loosen, so he's droopy and boneless. Then his door flies open.

"Sherlock. Get downstairs. Dinner will get cold."

"Doesn't matter to me." Sherlock sticks his tongue out. "I'm not going to eat it anyway."

"Come. Downstairs."

"Make me."

Mycroft draws himself up a tiny bit taller. "Fine."

He walks over to the edge of the bed and picks Sherlock up under his armpits. Sherlock stays boneless, one foot dragging behind him on the ground as Mycroft lugs him inch by inch out of his room. Beads of sweat are starting to appear on Mycroft's forehead by the time they get to the stairs. Sherlock starts getting scared.

"Put me down Croft, I'll walk."

"No, you'll run away. I'm not stupid." He takes one step down.

Sherlock starts twisting, reaching around to try to grab Mycroft's hands. "You'll drop me!"

"Well, if you keep squirming like that- Sherlock-"

And then Sherlock is falling, thumping his way down the staircase and sliding across the floor at the bottom. Greg is there first, while Mycroft is still frozen at the top of the staircase.

"Hey, squirt, are you okay?" He says. "You're bleeding a bit." Sherlock knows. He can feel the split skin on the back of his head, and there's blood on one of the stairs. He punches Greg in the chin.

"Sherlock! What's the matter with you?" Mycroft is yelling at him as he runs down the stairs. Sherlock's eyes are doing that weird burning thing again. It's not fair, it's not fair that Greg should get to take Mycroft, Mycroft is Sherlock's person. Greg doesn't even need Mycroft, he probably has lots of people.

Greg stands up and goes into the kitchen. Mycroft is still yelling. He's shaking, too, and his eyes look wide and scared. He's all red and pale and blotchy, all at the same time.

"Why did you have to start squirming like that, Sherlock? Of course I was going to drop you, what did you think would happen? You should have thought about it better than that, Sherlock, honestly, what's the matter with you?"

The problem with that question is that Sherlock doesn't know. All he knows is that if he knew what the matter with him was, he would fix it.

Greg comes back with some ice cubes wrapped in a dishtowel and holds them against Sherlock's head, where the cut is. It stings, and Sherlock's vision goes a little more blurry. Mycroft still doesn't move, just stands there with wide eyes and tremors.

Greg looks at Sherlock. "Hey didn't you have some good news for your brother when you got home? Do you want to tell him now?"

Sherlock glares up at Mycroft. "Not really. It won't make me stop thinking about my head, either. I know that's what you were doing."

"Wow, you're sure clever!"

"That won't work either." Sherlock folds his arms across his chest. "Still thinking about my head."

Greg sighs. "Look, just tell your brother your news, okay?"

Sherlock presses his lips together. He doesn't open them again that night, not to tell Mycroft about John or to eat dinner. The next morning, while their parents are still sleeping, Mycroft makes Sherlock some toast and eggs. Sherlock doesn't eat that either.

* * *

"Whoa!" John's eyes are wide when he plops down next to Sherlock at lunch. "What happened to your arms?"

Sherlock looks down at his arms, resting on the table. They're dotted with purple patches. "I fell down the stairs. I hit my head, too. It bled."

John's eyes widen. "Are you okay? Can I see?" He stands up on the bench and flaps his hands, motioning for Sherlock to turn around. Sherlock twists a bit and pulls his hair away from the cut.

"Wow, gross!" Says John. He sounds impressed, and it makes Sherlock smile. "It must have hurt. How did you fall down the stairs?"

"My brother dropped me." Sherlock fidgets a bit. "He was mad at me yesterday. I don't know why. He's never mad at me like that."

John glances at the empty stretch of table in front of Sherlock. "Is that why he took your lunch?"

"He didn't take my lunch, he packed it for me. I left it on the counter, I don't want to eat it."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm mad at him now!"

John frowns. "He probably didn't mean to drop you. Besides, aren't you hungry?"

Sherlock is. He's starving. He doesn't know why John cares, though. John shouldn't care, he has a paper bag and he's pulled a sliced orange, a bottle of water, three biscuits and a sandwich out of it. Sherlock folds his arms across his stomach.

"No," he says.

John giggles a little. "Liar. Here." He holds half his sandwich out to Sherlock. It's chicken. Sherlock looks at it suspiciously.

"What are you doing?"

"Sharing my lunch."

Sherlock is baffled. "Why?"

"Because you can't just not eat lunch!"

"Why not?"

"Because it's lunch!" John really is laughing now. "Here, just take it."

Sherlock does. The bread is a little dry and there isn't enough butter. He eats three slices of orange and a biscuit, too – it's the best lunch he's ever had.

* * *

_To be continued, hopefully within the next week!_


End file.
